Cyborg
by cclee123
Summary: A basic continuance of an old story "Deadly Beauty?"...One mans journey to uncover the woman beneath the machine.
1. Prologue

A low rumbling could be heard over the hill-spread forests outside of early dawn North City. If, in the barely waking hours of the day, you listened hard enough, you just might be able to conceive the urgency in the traveling sound. If, by chance, you were to inhabit the lush, dew coated pine trees which proudly marked the outskirts of said city, you'd find yourself with no choice but to look on with curiosity as your relentless mind pinpoints the audible disruption of peace. It treads across the desolate field of dirt in a smoke-trailed line and, your eyes coming into focus, you realize that there is not one, but two individuals, moving in unison.

This becomes a fact just as they disappear underneath the dividing line of foliage. With a shower of scattered leaves, the pair accelerates with the change of terrain, and the forest awoke in a flash.

The sky depicted a fading grey, slowly bending to the will of an incessant blue. With the warming change of color came the rising sun, and its gradual radiance on the world below. It knew everything, has seen every progression of the day, from each growing blade of grass to the birth of new life.

A fawn , taking its first steps on shaking, branch thin legs, discovered the first sound of its world to be the two whining engines weaving their way among the pine. In turn its mother licked her newborns trembling ears, and the young thing resumed its lesson.

Over a bending log, under a veil of winding branches, the machines- sleek dirt bikes-branded their mark on nature. Their tires, wet from the moisture of dawn, collected caked dirt and stray grass in its wake, until they resembled the creatures of the forest themselves.

Slapping the left side of these bikes were hardy duffel bags: the one in the lead bearing one in baby blue, whose contents revealed loose pieces of clothing, clearly feminine. The other was of slightly rougher material, with a mahogany shade.

"Can we stop here for a minute?"

In reply, the leading bike came to a halt, and the resounding echo died. The other followed suit, exhaling. Feet touched earth, and helmets were removed.

"Tell me something."

The female of the two turned to regard him. "Hm?"

"How can you be in the lead with the amount of crap you have crammed in that thing?" The speaker, the male, gestured to the blue duffel bag, whose weight threatened to topple the first bike sideways.

She shrugged innocently, a small smile playing her heart shaped face.

The pair surveyed the surrounding area, and after a small kick to the ground, the male let his weight fall backwards.

He was a lean, fresh faced youth with a massive mop of raven hair, and dim, hazel eyes. His clothing betrayed his age, a faded orange shirt and navy jeans. In short, he was a young man of 17.

His sister, however, bared no resemblance. Her complexion was fair where his was sun-tanned, and the hair which framed her face was a pale blond shade. In turn, her stare held two emerald green eyes. It was apparent in the manner of her temperament that she was the older of the two, a beautiful young girl of 18.

Around them, the trees stirred with the first chirps of spring birds, and the foragers who took residence in their hollows. The depiction of nature gave the siblings a sense of true peace, felt in their content sighs and heavy eyes. After a few moments:

"C'mon."

"Where to?"

"I want to check out that stream up ahead."

She stared in his general direction with a quiet pause. "Alright."

The two started through the trees in silence, his arm around her shoulders. Every once in awhile, a protruding branch would block their path, and he would bend it forwards for her to pass first.

"Hey…."

"Yes?"

"D'ythink they've noticed yet?"

…"Honestly?"

"Mhm." He pulled back another branch from eye level.

She kicked up rocks in return. "No."

The sound of running water, alive with natural force, barely caught their attention.

"And I doubt they ever will."

Up the way from the stream stood a solitary bear. It lapped up the cool, clear water passively, leaving either one to wonder if it noticed them, or otherwise was uninterested. It grunted, clawed behind its ear, and with nearly a full-body shake of its thick throat, it lumbered back into the wilderness.

This brief appearance of life in the heart of the woods caused the two to stare in silent awe. For them, who by habit visit this place whenever possible, life meant striving for a way to get out, anywhere, everywhere but their suburban birthplace. This, they decided, was their final departure. For the eldest, this life meant a peaceful existence: For her brother, it was the chance to prove himself invincible.

"What's say we catch one of these suckers for dinner?" He barely needed to point out the onrush of salmon hurtling downstream.

"You're the boss," she replied. And when he bounded headfirst into the rushing water, she couldn't suppress a giggle. He writhed and squirmed, ignoring the downpour of water in his eyes and throat with hearty laughter. She placed herself on a nearby boulder, enjoying the spectacle.

"I-I think…I…GOT ONE. C'mere…G-g-grab it!"

She strode daintily over to the shoreline, just within arms length. His outstretched hand came closer, palm open…holding…_nothing._ He seized pale wrist, and with a shriek, she was hurled forward into a cold stab of spring water.

"You brat!" She slapped the water in his face, and a splashing war began. They forgot completely that their clothing was soaked, their hair drowned, her makeup running. They knew only that they had each other, and that the wilderness would keep it that way. She grew exhausted from laughing, and her flailing arms gave out. He knew well enough to translate this as his sisters way of ending the game. She started for shore, and he gave a contented sigh.

"Let's go silly. There's a meadow just up the way. There has to be plenty of deer."

He smirked. "But you're mascara's a _mess_…"

"Oh, shut up."

She helped him to his feet as he tried to remain dead weight. When the game persisted, she shoved him away. He brushed himself off, a useless gesture. It wasn't until he attended to his soaking calves that he paused. It was so immediate, so precise. His eyes narrowed, set clearly on the darkness of a nearby maze of branches. It was not a sound that caught his attention. It was an unmistakable sight.

"What?" she whispered.

He straightened, his eyes never leaving their focused spot. She neared closer to him, her hand finding his. His fingers seized hers with only an ounce of consciousness that she was there, but it filled her with relief nonetheless. When it was clear that he wouldn't grace her with a word, she tried instead to find the source of his sudden attention. His sudden…._fear. _But nothing could be found.

All at once, he took one step forward. Two. Three. Their entwined fingers slowly drifted apart, regardless of her mounting fear. She raked his hand backwards, but mentally, he was too far gone.

"Shh…"

"Don't lea-"

"Wait here." He held up his hand in silent command. "Wait for me." And then she watched him, watched the obscure darkness envelope him, and when the wet squeak of his converse died down, she was completely alone.

But the awful presence didn't leave her.

It closed in from all sides, waiting, watching, reading her every instinct. A sick fear rose up inside her, weaving its way through her soaked body, settling as a taste in her throat. And when her fragile, heart-shaped face began to crack into a frightened sob, a branch snapped, she spun around violently, and the world went black.


	2. I

"_Bastard!"_

He heard the crack of her hand against his face before the sharp pain that had to follow. His head reeled back, and he experienced what could very well have been shock. But a Saiyan warrior doesn't feel such things. Especially not from this Earth woman.

He seized her wrist with a sharp precision, a hawk gripping a mouse.

"Are you threatening me, woman?" he growled softly.

The small of her back hit the wall, and her wide, blue eyes narrowed.

"I'm not afraid of you."

It was unsettling how readily he believed her. The Prince of all Saiyans was unsettled. He tightened his grip.

"You should be."

In the instant between their growing proximity and her response, her brow furrowed. His calloused hand may have been cutting off her circulation, but her focused glare, so devoid of the fear he craved, dulled every one of his senses.

He hated her.

The tips of their noses met, and he felt her hot breath transferred from her tiny mouth to his.

"Or what?" she whispered.

And he was speechless.

Within the past 2 years of living in this place, this industry/suburban home, he'd done everything to increase his stamina, his strength, his endurance…but combating this female, whom he knew to be as frail as a glass vase, was a new experience in degradation. She cooked his meals, washed his only suit, and repaired the gravity room when needed…..

She cared.

And she was still waiting for a response.

It wasn't until self-consciousness occurred to him that he noticed his hand placed confidently on her hip. Neither had noticed.

"I….." She eyed him quizzically, her lips parting to interject.

And in an insatiable rush, he dove himself forward, the impact of his mouth to hers brought together with beginning closure. Her faint moan, warmth to his attentive ear, made the introduction of a new sensation: sweetness.

He felt his powerful hands grip her sides, aching to remove every piece of clothing. And she reciprocated: her nails found the flesh on the back of his neck, and dug with all the intensity of a woman starving for more….beyond the limits of her unfaithful ex boyfriend, beyond the tedious tasks of an infallible genius….beyond the planet itself. Her feet left the ground, finding each other as she wrapped her legs around this hardened middle. She pressed himself to her, gentle yet desperate.

They left internal thought, gripping blindly for the barriers….And when he lay her down slowly on the tile, bare and writhing, he looked with what could have been possession. Affection.

He loved her.

"Vegeta…."

He grunted his response, a new tone to her ears. It wasn't the same aggravation she'd so often heard in the time passed between them. It was a whine….

"Come here…"

He enfolded his arms around her, sliding himself into position. Their foreheads collided, and she couldn't help but giggle at the clumsy pain. But he didn't understand, nor did he care. His face found the crook of her neck, her soft, blue hair brushing his cheek. They started to move, with only a moment to find unison. Rougher, faster, unfamiliar, and at times, tender.

And when it was finished, and he left without a backward glance or regard for his tossed clothing, she had no idea in the world that she would wake the next day due to morning sickness.


	3. II

So....apparently there was some misconception about the last chapter. :/ Lets hope this clears things up. Oh, and apparently morning sickness doesnt occur until much later. Shows how much I know. Erm....enjoy!

When Bulma Briefs went into labor, everything she couldve concieved of childbirth was tossed away in the useless refuse of thought. During contractions, and many times afterword, she came to the notion that this was a _Saiyan child _she was in the process of delivering...No walk in the park, even for a human birth. She wanted this, however, wanted this child, wanted this promise, wanted this life. She knew it was a boy: she was suprised at her lack of disappointment. A girl she could've dressed, connected with, etc, on a level that she knew to have the experience to share. But this was her baby boy, her little Briefs she strained and screamed into the world.

Her parents were present, present and projecting all the wrong noises. She had to love them for that. Her mother shrieked and fainted a dozen times over..._opening her eyes _in the father, perspiration pouring in a flood every which way, gripped her constricted hands with frightened whimpers. He'd removed his lab coat hours before, and even his favorite cat would have to wait. For now the clock was ticking, and delivery was growing near.

Bulma began to thrash, her nails digging into her poor fathers calloused hands. It all came to this. That afternoon in the gravity room, that skirmish, that mutual battle of wills gave way to an entire month of similar meetings. Ever intense, ever ravenous. It was unlike anyone she'd ever been with.

And he wasn't here.

She didn't expect him to be, didn't bend logic to the point of contradiction. But that didn't mean it didn't hurt her.... because she knew he felt the same.

She bit down on her bottom lip, hard, tasting the break of the skin, the faintest flavor of her own blood...

And with an ear splitting shriek that shook the entire building, through every corridor and between every metallic wall, there came the sound of a newborn, unmistakably healthy and alive.

"Trunks..."

"Trunks?" her father inquired, cupping the babys soaking head.

"Why not?" she gasped. "The stupid name you two've given me widened my perception to the art of baby naming."

They stared at her blankly.

"Hun, you're not making a shred of sense..."

Her eyes narrowed. "His name is Trunks! Fucking deal!"

This was a bit shorter than I would've liked...but I don't see an easy transition between what happens here and next other than a new chapter. It's not that I'm getting lazy. Quite the opposite. I'm soooo grateful that my writers block is starting let up. I hope any confusion has been depleted...if not eliminated. Stay tuned!


	4. III

A blow none of them could have foreseen.

The most unexpected of tragic events.

Their savior, their friend, their rival, fell prey to earthly means.

Goku, the gifted youth, the heroic teenager, the amazing man from space, was near passing. And all the work of a _virus._

For his dearest friends, who remain gathered outside, heads bowed, waiting for an absolution, the world only faded into a more obscure sense of loss: one that they couldn't bring themselves to deny. Each scolded the other harshly; making weak assurances that in a mere number of hours, days, _weeks, _their friend would regain his footing, and loudly exclaim: "Can we eat first?" So much so that when they first realized the presence of the virus, when he'd taken his first fall to one knee, one hand cupped to his heart, none knew what to make of it.

The event itself happened only that morning. Now, their hearts full of tremor, they silently recounted what this could mean.

But none could possibly grieve among them as sweetly or fiercely as Bulma Briefs. The woman who, at the age of 16, "discovered" what would be her greatest friend for all time, bringing him into the world he came to call his own.

Or what _could_ have been for all time.

Now, her year old son whining softly into her breast, she could do nothing but frown at the impending desire to weep, and the depleting possibility of hope. Placing himself on a boulder on the embankment, her one time lover gazed out into the still river, the water a sickly yellow to match the sky.

No one word was uttered to one another after Trunks birth. Not a glance, nor a gesture, nor an accidental run in. And in the present situation, none of that mattered. She held her whimpering son to her, the affects of motherhood overtaking every emotion she would've otherwise felt. When she finally did feel Vegeta look back at her, after what could have been hours of grim silence, she met his gaze, and pressed her lips to the baby's kitten soft forehead.

He didn't scowl. He stared a moment longer, unreadable, before crossing his arms and resuming the river. To them, this was the best he could do.

"Hey! Gohan!" she heard Oolong exclaim.

They all turned to look at him, the arrow that would pierce their hearts. This was his son…and he was seconds away from bearing the unbearable. But none stopped him. Before entering he looked to them imploringly, reading everything, saying nothing. Piccolo placed a firm hand on his weakening shoulder as he stepped onto the threshold, but nothing more.

And when they heard the door wrenched open, and Chi-Chi's startled gasp, all was confirmed.

"He's _gone!_....Goku's _gone!"_

This shook Bulma from deep internal thought: anxiety rose like a horrible vapor. Among the stolen breath of shuddered gasps, she could faintly hear Vegeta's voice..

"_Kakarott…no…"_

Each fighter could sense what she couldn't…Something they called life force. An eliminated life force.

Little did she know in that moment, that in 6 months time, Goku's death would not be the first….or the last.


	5. IV

Note: I'd _really _like input on this one…negative and positive.

He never knew his father.

It was always a great mystery to him. Perhaps the greatest he could have with only 7 years under his belt. His mother, who gave him the world, kept only this, not as a secret, but an interminable mystery. He knew he was a Saiyan, and a considerably powerful one at that. He also knew, and his mother couldn't stress it enough, that he was exceedingly proud, and just as arrogant. But the notion didn't stop him from dreaming.

There were no photos of Vegeta: no home videos, no albums, or otherwise. This would've been saddening, had it not been for the company of a loving mother and grandparents. What he did leave behind was an assortment of worn out battle armor, and countless blast marks in the gravity room interior. It made him imagine someone dangerous: majestic, powerful. He took pride in knowing his father was once a fearless warrior: that he died for a cause.

All this he would mull over when completely alone. But it was never silent the way he longed for it to be. He never knew the chirping of crickets: the screeching of reckless teenage drivers. The world he lived in was far from calm. The distance was always littered with shining balls of light; explosions he could've sworn were only coming closer. He knew them to belong to the monsters that took his father away: the androids, as the news would call them.

Televised footage only showed the destruction: never what they looked like.

Some say they were machines in every way.

Some say they couldn't be recognized until their attacks began.

Some even went far as to suggest making peace and reason.

But Trunks had every reason in the world to regard them with a bitter hatred, peace in the balance or no. They could be hulking masses of iron with impenetrable shielding: it didn't matter.. Piccolo, Yamcha, Tien, Krillin, all gone. He didn't know these people, but memorized their names religiously. The only difference was these people _did _leave behind photographs and stories and faint smiles from his mother. He looked back.

Piccolo was a reformed demon.

Yamcha was her mothers ex boyfriend, the one she left for his father.

Tien was a 3 eyed fighter with a solitary way of living.

And Krillin was the comic relief: the reluctant adventurer.

Time lost with all of them only made him stronger. His imagination, the far reached of possibility, 'what if', was all it took.

. He sat up after a long while. His mother always tried to keep things sane, almost entirely normal…..which was why they were expecting company today.

He let his weight fall back onto the grass, gazing up at the window panes. The greenhouse was one of the more passive rooms to inhabit. They could no longer feed and look after the huge assortment of animals that once lived there. Humans weren't the only ones to suffer under apocalyptic conditions. Hence, his thinking…his _wondering_…was done here.

_How did it happen?_

_I wasn't there sweetheart._

His mother was the master of evasiveness when it came to conversation.

Not like Gohan.

Gohan was a completely different story in itself. He was his best friend, his brother. And at this moment, he was standing in the doorway.

"Heyya kiddo", he murmured with a warm grin.

Trunks started, completely thrust from his thoughts. He returned the smile with a startled expression. "Hey stranger."

A pause passed between them. Ever since the sudden, dramatic increase of killings in the local area, social pleasantries were hard to come by. But somehow, that never deterred Gohan. He was the spitting image of gentle kindness, matched with dangerous power. It was no wonder why Trunks idolized him so fiercely. His mother adored him, so naturally, he was obliged to do the same.

But down to business.

"What's the story these days?"

"Nothing good little brother. Nothing good."

Trunks edged closer as Gohan lowered himself to his level. "Tell me."

His dear friend gave a shuddering sigh, settling himself in the grass opposite him. "You want the truth," he presumed.

"Yes." He nodded vigorously.

"Another city wiped out."

This left either one speechless. The moments passed were dedicated to the mourning of every soul. With every life taken, Trunks couldn't help but feel so close to every being on the planet. This was their species.

In this time, this era, there was no more room for discrimination against your own species. The young boy of 7 years old was beginning to feel something awful spread throughout him. Something inherited, but something newly grown. An urgency that wouldn't reach its full intensity until his teens.

A horrible hatred for monsters he's never seen.

"Something has to be done."

His fellow human nodded silently.


	6. V

The first change became noticeable in his voice.

He peered closer into the mirror, flexing his vocal cords. His mother told him this period of his life would arrive, and soon. It was strange though, embarrassing even. Sometimes he would catch himself in mid sentence in a casual setting, all at once experiencing a dramatic expiration in the strength of his speech. This only made his mother, often times Gohan, laugh good-naturedly. They found it _adorable. _And though the sound would occasionally ball his fists in irritation, he knew this phase was not forever. He even wondered if maybe, once changed, his mother would recognize something of his father in his new found voice.

_Fat chance._

He knew all too well Bulma would never acknowledge his existence. The mere mentioning irritated her, whether in mourning or disdain he'll never know. He'd given up on maneuvering into that past, that world. To ponder was to disappoint, and instead he honed his strength and ability. Gohan could be thanked for that. Ever since the recent activity concerning the androids, he found it necessary to prepare. For what, he did not know. He merely felt. He swore something would be done, and for 6 years, the silent promise held firm.

He found the changes in his body also contributed to his endurance, his stamina. The ability to fly was nearly _granted _to him recently, following his 14th birthday. His appetite grew, reaching far beyond his usual 12 full course meals a sitting.

But it was his thought process that changed the most.

His anger swelled with every massacre he caught wind of. He couldn't fathom peace of mind when these occurrences began. It was all he could do not to take out his rage on the nearest object. And though this undeniable Saiyan trait proved overwhelming, it was possible to be overcome by his human blood. He saw the remaining shreds of life around him as precious, and in turn he found the ability to be gentle, grateful. His way of coping lay in his playful, often sarcastic sense of humor.

And yet his mother never lost hope in a peaceful world. He could see it in everything she did, from her frequent, brave trips to the local grocery to her inability to part from her computer. Her feverish attention to her lab was puzzling, but natural. It was never his cup of tea, mechanics, but the action kept their lives together. It was possible for these two to create a domestic setting when the radios were switched off, "Recent Android Activity" pushed down to mute on the television. They found that despite everything, from the growing proximity of the attacks to the climbing casualties, that it was them that would eventually make the change their kind so desperately needed. They were unlike the rest of their species: the unfathomable genius and her super-human son.

Sometimes he saw them as the perfect team, he and his mother. He teased her obsessive labor, but he loved her company. She was his feisty, headstrong survivor: life would cease without her.

The subject, more than once, came up about his interest in the opposite sex. At first playful, then prodding. In such precarious times it was hardly vital, but Bulma would wonder. There were plenty of young girls his age, the age when one would start to notice the other. And Trunks did accumulate his fair show of shy smiles and awkward greetings.

At times, he would blush furiously, at others, he would sigh in irritation. It did nothing for the good of the race and silly girls with their silly hormones should know this. But overall, there was no female that struck his fancy.

He didn't attend school, obviously, and this section of the world he missed out on didn't bother him in the least. Saiyan disdain for human teachings could be thanked for that. The life of passed notes, chalkboards, and late homework was unknown to him.

There was so much he didn't know.

"Trunks! I'm heading out for a food run!"

"Alright Mom!"

Such mundane rituals never interested him.

She peered into his bedroom.

"Come with me? You can tell me what to pick out."

A tempting gesture. He nodded with a small smile. "Sure."

Alllllright. I've been away for ages, I know. Testing that college thing, testing life. A recent review really made me consider this story. Firstly, I know my dialogue is weak. Character's are exceedingly hard to adapt. I should watch this show again and bone up. XP Secondly, you can expect the reason why the 2 main characters are who they are in the chapter to follow. I'm very afraid I've lost you guys.. Lately I've been working on a book, and here I ask. Based on my use of language, would you read it? …Let alone buy it? So, enter our lovely cyborg!


	7. VI

The smell of smoke, charred flesh: the awful absence of human voices, movement, and all signs of hope...

When he discovered the dismantled city, after what seemed like ages of shaking determination, he found he was far from prepared for the graveyard before him.

_This was too much, _he thought, squeezing his eyes shut. _Too much of nothing.._

The radio in his mother's capsule car had beckoned him here. The pleading newscast reporter, the panic escalating in his voice, relaying action after insidious action: the murder, the chaotic destruction to an entire city. He'd hoped only to find struggling survivors, disabled limbs. Even a wounded child, desperately in need of medical attention. He would have tended to them, flew them where necessary. Done his part to put right the static screams he'd heard only moments before.

But what's more, and above all else, he'd hoped for a fight.

No such satisfaction would be given on this day.

He'd hoped for blood. Recently the word had got out that these two resembled humans, that wherever they manifested, they were born of human base. Gohan once said, the horror etched in his speech, that he could _feel_ the bruises he so brutally inflicted, and couldn't deny the impact of flesh and bone in their movements. He wouldn't say more, not of their voices, appearances, etc..

Such a morbid observation. He, the son of a ruthless warrior, couldn't help but shudder.

_This just isn't fair.._

His feet touched the ground, the smoke surrounding him in all directions. Amongst the scattered, lifeless bodies and building remains lay a doll: a small, yellow rabbit in a red dress. Tenderly, he snatched it from the rubble, familiar rage bubbling up with all the intensity of a teenage Saiyan. He squeezed his eyes shut and balled his fist, his entire, power body radiating with pressure. This was his battle. No one could rise to this occasion but him.

No one, except...

Arriving on the scene, out of the air, came the familiar bulk of the shadow that was Gohan. He landed on rubble, as he stared down the tell tales signs of sheer disaster. His eyes were trained on the lifeless corpses of the partially cremated victims. He wrinkled his nose to the overwhelming stench of burnt flesh. But above all else, behind the aggravation, the thought of the dangerous pests that befell this world, the continuous sight of massacre just like these, closing in everywhere he's been, his concern lay with Trunks.

"Why are they doing this?" he half cried. "Killing all of these innocent people?"

To the mind of a 13 year old boy, especially that of a half Saiyan, overwrought with the need to kill, this couldn't make sense. And it didn't. No, to Trunks there was only good and evil.

Gohan, on the other hand, understood, despite their appearances, that these were were programmed, engineered, especially for this, exactly this...devastation. This is why he no longer shed tears. That, and years of hardened discipline and resolve. Piccolo had taught him better than to give in to such emotions, in inopportune moments or otherwise. It did no good to dwell.

Which was exactly what Trunks must, but won't, at least immediately, learn.

He turned to him. "I think it's time we went home," he said solemnly.

Trunks seemed to be lost. Gohan took a step forward. "C'mon little brother."

Still, no reaction. His brow furrowed. "Trunks!" Truthfully, he hadn't meant to be so harsh. He frowned, silently apologetic. But it worked.

Trunks trailed to his side in the fashion of a mournful animal torn from the sight of death. He looked up at him, tear stained and utterly tortured.

"We'll go to your place," Gohan continued. "I'm sure your mother's worried sick."

And so I threw this out. It's unbearably short, but I was overcome by such a desire to continue this that I couldn't help myself. And obviously, I've gotta throw you guys a bone sooner or later. However brief this was, rest assured I still have much planned for this story. Stay tuned! ^-^


	8. VII

_"Is this the way life is supposed to be?"_

He felt his own hot tears hit his clenched knuckles. He felt neither the awareness nor the feeling to notice. They'd arrived mere moments before, one silent, the other in unrestrained turmoil. This was the moment they'd both been waiting for. He'd finally seen the aftermath of all he'd heard in vague stories. He grasped the destruction, the murder, in his own trembling palm. It was an overwhelming feeling the likes of which only his human side could truly weep for. And this he did, however against his practiced control. But now, now..

"I'd rather fight and _die _than watch this all happen.."

Trunks hadn't looked up in what felt like an hour. So trained on the carpet, the nothingness of his rising emotions, that he snapped into the realization that someone was actually listening to him. This someone could _help _him. He was a warrior. He _knew _in his heritage what this meant. He had to. It was both the brutal savagery of a Saiyan's thirst for revenge, and the noble humanity, compassion for a due cause.

_I've let this go on long enough.._

There was only one option. And it was in his power. He was meant for this, _chosen _even, if life really was so written.

"No!" he exclaimed, ignorant to his volume. "I can't just sneak around while this is going _on!"_

He whipped his head around, only to find his dear friend's back turned. It was sunset, he noted. The effect matched his solid bulk. Gohan was in firm concentration... He must've stood this way the entire time. With a slight agitation, he also noted, he was ignoring him.

"Please.._Train _me...," he continued, the desperation climbing at rapid speed,"You _have _to.._Please, _I must to fight.." The pressure of his folded fingers against his palm would surely draw blood. He was in hysterics.

No acknowledgement. This truth would not fall on deaf ears. Trunks was onto something, he could feel it.

He stood, determined to reach his friend with any forms of persuasion. After all, a thirteen year old boy would not be swayed. He was too young to know the art of channeling serious intention through speech.

"C'mon Gohan. You're half Saiyan like me, right? So then you must know how I'm feeling! Help me channel some of this _anger!" _He growled on the last note, once again attracted to the floor. Losing himself momentarily, he waited patiently for a response. Trunks knew this would appeal to him. Over the years he'd paid attention to his conflicting relationship with his mother Chi-Chi. The woman was ridiculously unrealistic, and more than a bit bent on explaining the importance of mind over muscle. This charade tended to lose it's urgency after his father's death started to finally sink into the both of them. It was obvious, he knew, that that was what Goku would've wanted, for his son to take on the role of protective figure in their little family. So, naturally, Chi-Chi had relented, watching with a heavy heart as her son grew into his late fathers clothes and struggled to match his strength.

To his despair, Gohan was yet to answer.

"_Gohan!" _he called sharply, in an attempt to pull him from whatever seemed so fucking fascinating beyond his window. He seemed almost cruel, in his shadowed, enigmatic way. Teasing Trunks was always Gohan's favorite thing.

At last, he was graced with the older boy's amused retort.

"You're pitiful, Trunks," he laughed.

The pre-teen frowned. _Thank you.._so _much.._

"An emotional _wreck,_" Gohan continued, carefully etched with the right amount of both humor and amusement. "Just like I was when my mom wouldn't let me train and fight with my father." He lingered on the nostalgia, obviously ignorant of the tragedies connected to the past he was describing. But on Trunks listened. He was coming to a point.

To his satisfaction, Gohan turned to regared him, a quiet smile spread across his face. This face he wore, always meant he had a solution. It was the sort of smile one couldn't help but acknowledge the positive aspects of a situation from. And then, to emphasize, Gohan walked forward. "From now on, I'm your master, and _you _are my pupil. How's that?"

Trunks matched his smile, the dry stain of his previous tears cracking his face. He nodded, a flood of relief, warm and heartening, washing over him. This plan was his calling. His attention was completely devoted to what's been granted.

"Great," he breathed. "I won't let you down."

In perfect response, Gohan nodded as well. "Yeah, I know."

A moment passed. One in which the young man quickly thought of how to go about this, and the younger one ached for the urge to begin. It was abruptly cut in half by the familiar sound of his mother's voice.

"Trunks! I'm home!"

"My mom's back! Oh man!" Trunks roughly wiped at his remaining tears. He wouldn't hear the end if his mother noticed tell-tale signs of real emotion. Bulma groaned for that kind of stuff.

But this new matter had to be kept a secret. "Please don't tell her."

"Right," Gohan chuckled.

Dinner was as normal as their world could offer.


End file.
